"So what went on overnight?"Morning briefing time the next day
found Sheriff Joanna Brady closeted in
her office at the Cochise County Justice
Complex with her two chief deputies,
Dick Voland and Frank Montoya. For a
change, the burly Voland and the slight
and balding Montoya weren't at each
other's throats.Montoya, deputy for administration
and a former city marshal from Willcox, had been one of
Joanna's several opponents in her race for sheriff. Voland,
chief for operations, had been chief deputy in the previous
administration and had actively campaigned for another
losing candidate. Joanna had confounded friends and critics
alike by appointing the two of them to serve as her chief
deputies. Almost a year into her administration, their
volatile oil-and-water combination was working. The
constant bickering didn't always make for the most
pleasant office environment, but Joanna valued the
undiluted candor that resulted from the two men's natural
rivalry."Let's see," Voland said, consulting his stack of reports."Hot time up in the northwest sector last night. First there was a report of a naked
female hitchhiker seen on Interstate 10 in Texas Canyon. Not surprisingly, she was long
gone before a deputy managed to make it to the scene.""Sounds to me like some long-haul trucker got lucky," Montoya said."That's what I thought, too," Voland agreed. "Then, overnight, somebody took out
Alton Hosfield's main pump and two head of cattle over on the Triple C."CCC Ranch, referred to locally as either the Triple C or the Calloway Cattle
Company, was an old-time cattle ranch that straddled the San Pedro River in
northwestern Cochise County. The family-owned spread had historic roots that dated all
the way back to Arizona's territorial days. Alton Hosfield, the fifty-three-year-old
current owner, was waging a lonely war against what he called "enviro-nuts" and the
federal government to keep his family's holdings all in one piece. Meanwhile, neighboring
ranches had been split up into smaller parcels. Those breakups had caused a steady
influx of what Alton Hosfield regarded as "Californicating riffraff." Most of the
unwelcome newcomers were people the rancher could barely tolerate."Does that mean the Cascabel range war is heating up all over again?" Joanna asked.Voland nodded. "It could be all those rattlers are getting ready to have another go at
it."in high school Spanish classes Joanna had been taught that cascabel meant "little bell."
But in Latin American Spanish it meant "rattlesnake." No doubt Voland wanted to
impress Frank Montoya with his own knowledge of local Hispanic place-names."Deputy Sandoval checked to see if maybe Hosfield's cattle had broken into Martin
Scorsby's pecan orchard again," Voland continued. "As far as he could tell, the fence
was intact, and both cattle were found on the Triple C side of the property line."Scorsby, Hosfield's nearest neighbor, was a former California insurance executive
who had planted a forty-acre pecan orchard on prime river bottom pastureland Alton
Hosfield had coveted for his own. During an estate sale, he had attempted to buy the
parcel from the previous owner's widow. Years later, Hosfield still read collusion into
the fact that Scorsby's offer had been accepted by the former owner's son-- yet another
Californian-- in place of his. In addition, Joanna knew that on several previous
occasions, when Triple C cattle had breached the fence and strayed into Scorsby's
pecan orchard, Hosfield had been less than prompt in retrieving them."It's not just that the cattle are dead," Voland added ominously. "It's how they got
that way. This isn't in the report, because I just talked to deputy Sandoval about it a few
minutes ago. He managed to recover a bullet from one of the dead cattle. He said he's
never seen anything like it. The slug must be two inches long.""Two inches!" Joanna repeated. "That sounds like it came out of a cannon rather than
a rifle.""Sniper rifle," Frank Montoya said at once. "Probably one of those fifty-caliber jobs."Both Joanna and Voland turned on the Chief Deputy for Administration. "You know
something about these guns?" the sheriff asked."A little," Montoya said. "There's a guy over in Pomerene named Clyde Philips. He's
a registered gun dealer who operates out of his back room or garage or some such
thing. He called me a couple of months ago wanting to set up an appointment for his
salesman to come give us the whole sniper-rifle dog and pony show. He said that since
the bad guys Might have access to these things, our Emergency Response Team should,
too. He sent me some info. After I looked it over, I called him back and told him thanks,
but no thanks. Maybe the crooks can afford to buy guns at twenty-five hundred to
seven thousand bucks apiece, but at that price they're way outside what the department
can pay.""What can fifty-calibers do?" Joanna asked."Depends on who you ask. After I talked to Philips and looked over the info he sent
me, I got on the Internet and researched it a little further. Fifty-calibers were first used as
Browning automatic rifles long ago. Remember those, Dick? Then the military in
Vietnam tried a sniper version. The farthest-known sniper kill is one point four-- two
miles, give or take. Not bad for what the industry calls a 'sporting rifle.' ""Sporting for whom?" Joanna asked."Probably not for the cattle," Voland replied."We'll be running forensic tests on the slug?"Voland nodded. "'You bet.""I don't suppose there's any way to tell who some of Clyde Philips' other local
customers might be," Joanna suggested.Montoya shrugged. "You could ask him, I suppose, but I don't know how much
good that'll do. Fifty-calibers may be lethal as all hell, but they don't have to be
registered. Anybody who isn't a convicted felon is more than welcome to buy one,
including, incidentally, those Branch Davidian folks from over in Waco. But just because
felons can't buy them doesn't necessarily mean they don't have them. All the crooks
have to do is steal one from somebody who does.""Great," Joanna said. She glanced at her watch. "I guess I'll take a run over to
Pornerene later today and have a little chat with Clyde Philips. Anybody care to join
me?""Can't," Montoya said. "I've got a set of grievance hearings with jail personnel lined
up for this afternoon.""I've got meetings too," Voland said, "although if you need me to go...""Then I'll make like the Little Red Hen and do it myself," Joanna said firmly. "While
I'm at it, I may stop by and visit both Hosfield and Scorsby. Maybe I can talk sense into
one or both of them. The last thing we need is for all those wackos up around Cascabel
to choose sides and start throwing stones.""Or bullets," Frank Montoya added."Right," Joanna said. "Now, what else is going on?""Just the usual," Voland replied. "An even dozen undocumented aliens picked up on
foot over east of Douglas. A stolen pickup down in Bisbee Junction. Two domestics,
one in Elfrida and another out in Palominas. A couple of DWIs between Huachuca City
and Benson. In other words, no biggies."Joanna turned to Montoya. "What's happening on the administration side?""Like I said before, those grievance hearings are set for this afternoon. I should have
the September rotation and vacation schedules ready for you to go over by tomorrow
morning, and next month's jail menus by tomorrow afternoon. Also, there are two new
provisioners, one from Tucson and one from Phoenix, interested in bidding on becoming
our food supplier. I'm trying to set up meetings with their sales reps for later this week.
You should probably be in on both of those."Joanna nodded. "All right. Anything else?" Both deputies shook their heads. "Okay,
then," she told them. "Let's go to work."Voland and Montoya left Joanna's office. Running one hand through her short red
hair, Joanna contemplated the hard nut of uncompleted paperwork left over from the
day before when her private phone rang. It was a line she had installed specifically so
family members-- Jenny in particular-- could reach her without having to fight their way
through the departmental switchboard."Hello, Joanna," Butch Dixon said as soon as she picked up the phone. "How are
things with the Sheriff of Cochise?"Blushing, Joanna glanced toward her office door and was grateful Frank Montoya
had closed it behind him when he went out. She didn't like the idea that anyone in the
outer office, including Kristin Marsten, her secretary, might be listening in on her private
conversations."Things are fine," Joanna said. "But I've barely heard from you the last few days.
What's going on?""I've been as busy as the proverbial one-armed paper hanger," Butch replied. "Or
maybe a one-legged flamenco dancer. What about you?"Joanna recognized that his joking response was meant to gloss over the lack of real
information in his answer, and that tweaked her. On the one hand, she couldn't help
wondering if his being so busy had something to do with some other woman. On the
other hand, since she and Butch had no kind of understanding, Joanna realized she had
no right to question him, and no right to be jealous, either."Just the usual," she said, matching the vagueness in his answer with her own."The usual murder and mayhem, you mean?" he asked. She could almost see the
teasing grin behind his question."More meetings and paperwork than murder," she admitted with a laugh.That was one of the things that had dismayed her about being sheriff. Her officers
often balked and complained at the amount of paperwork required of them. Joanna
found that she certainly had more than her own fair share of it, but what seemed to chew
up and squander most of her time, what she resented most, was the never-ending round
of meetings. She despised the necessity of attending one mindless confab after another--
endless, droning conferences where little happened and even less was decided."What are you doing tonight?" Butch asked."Tonight? Nothing, but..."How about dinner?""Where?" Joanna asked, trying not to sound too eager. Several times in the past few
months, she and Butch had split the two hundred miles between them by meeting in
Tucson for lunch or dinner, but she wasn't sure she wanted to make that trip on a
weeknight."Eight o'clock in the morning comes mighty early," she said.Butch laughed. "Don't worry," he returned. "I promise I won't keep you out late. I'll
pick you up at the ranch at seven. I've got something I want to show you. See you then.""Wait a minute," Joanna interrupted before he could hang up. "What kind of dinner
are we talking about? How should I dress?""Casual," Butch said. "Definitely casual.""This doesn't include going someplace on your motorcycle, does it?" she asked
warily. Butch Dixon was inordinately proud of his Goldwing, but riding motorcycles was
something Joanna Brady didn't do. And she didn't intend to start."No," Butch answered. "We won't be winging it. I'll have my truck. See you then."just as Joanna put down the phone, her office door opened and Kristin marched up
to her desk carrying that morning's stack of mail, which landed on top of the previous
day's leftovers. Shaking her head, Joanna dived into it. She wondered if she'd ever
achieve the kind of organizational skill where she handled paperwork only once without
having to sort it into stacks and piles first.Kristin stood for a moment watching Joanna work, then she turned to go. "Do me a
favor if you would," Joanna called after her. "Look up the number for Clyde Philips over
in Pomerene. Call him and ask if I can stop by to see him for a little while early this
afternoon, say around two o'clock. And then double-check with Marianne Maculyea
and see if we're still on for lunch."The Reverend Marianne Maculyea, pastor of Canyon United Methodist Church, was
not only Joanna's minister, she was also her best friend. The two had known each other
from junior high on, and once a week or so, they met for a girl-talk lunch at which they
could let down their hair. In Bisbee, Arizona, the two friends were well known for their
non traditional jobs. As women doing "men's" work, both were often targets of
small-town gossip, jealousy, and criticism. Set apart from most of the other women in
the community, they used their weekly get-togethers as sounding boards and pressure
valves. Huddled in the privacy of one of Daisy Maxwell's booths, they could discuss
issues neither could mention to anyone else.While Kristin went to make the calls, Joanna settled in to answer the
correspondence. Over the months, Kristin had finally accepted the fact that Joanna
preferred to type her own letters on her own computer, rather than going through what
she regarded as the cumbersome process of dictating them and having them typed.
Dictation might have been fine for a hunt-and-peck typist like Sheriff Walter V.
McFadden. For Joanna, however-- a former insurance-office manager whose personal
typing speed was about one hundred and twenty words a minute-- dictation simply
didn't make any sense. Whenever possible, the sheriff typed her own correspondence.One after another, Joanna ripped through the letters, keying one letter in, printing it,
and signing it before going on to the next. All Kristin would have to do when they landed
on her desk was type the envelopes, stuff the letters inside, and run the stuffed
envelopes through the postage meter.An hour and a half passed with blinding speed. Later, on her way to the coffeepot in
the outside office, Joanna stopped at Kristin's desk. "Any luck with Clyde Philips?" she
asked.Kristin shook her head. "I can keep trying, but so far there's no answer at his place.""What about Marianne?""She says it's Cornish Pasties Monday at Daisy's, so she wouldn't miss it for the
world."By eleven-thirty, Joanna was settled into one of the worn Naugahyde booths in
Daisy's Cafe. Arriving ahead of Marianne, Joanna sat and waited, stirring her iced tea
and replaying her conversation with Butch Dixon. There was a part of her-- the old,
loyal to Andy part-- that enjoyed his company immensely but still wanted to hold the
man himself at arm's length. Then there was the other part of her-- the new Joanna--
who didn't want to run the risk of losing Butch to someone else.That was one of the reasons she was looking forward to this particular lunch with
Marianne. She wanted to have the opportunity to discuss the Butch Dixon dilemma.
Marianne Maculyea was a skilled minister and counselor as well as a trusted friend.
Joanna hoped Marianne would help sort through some of her jumbled emotions and
make sense of what she was feeling.Unfortunately, the possibility for the two women to have an intimate little chat
disappeared the moment Marianne opened the door. She arrived with her two-year-old
twins in tow.Months earlier, Marianne and her husband, Jeff Daniels, had adopted Ruth Rachel
and Esther Elaine from an orphanage in China. Ruth had quickly bounced back from the
inhumane deprivations of her infancy, while Esther continued to suffer lingering health
difficulties, one of which had placed her on the waiting list for a heart transplant. That
painful subject was one Marianne and Jeff seldom discussed with anyone outside their
immediate family, Joanna Brady included. It was easy to understand why. For one thing,
doctors hadn't held out much hope. Potential donors who might match Esther's ethnic
background were few and far between. Without the transplant, Esther would inevitably
die, but a successful transplant for her would automatically mean a lifetime of heartbreak
for some other devastated family.Ruth's plump arms and legs as well as her constant tornado of activity stood in sharp
contrast to Esther's wan lethargy. Crowing with joy at seeing Joanna, Ruth ran headlong
into the restaurant and scrambled eagerly up onto the seat beside her. Marianne
followed, carrying Esther, a purse, and an enormous diaper bag-- one Joanna had given
her on the day the twins arrived in Tucson."I hope you don't mind," Marianne apologized, slipping Esther into a high chair the
busboy quickly delivered to the booth. He returned a moment later with a booster seat.
Beaming up at him, Ruth climbed into that. "Jeff had to make a run up to Tucson to pick
up some parts, and in this heat..." Marianne continued.For years Jeff Daniels had served solely as househusband and clergy spouse to his
full-time pastor wife. The arrival of the twins, along with Esther's ongoing medical
problems, had put an extra strain on the couple's already meager finances. Faced with
the real possibility of financial ruin, Jeff had taken his hobby of restoring old cars and
turned it into a thriving business, Auto Rehab Inc. Most of the time he was able to keep
the girls with him, but Joanna agreed with Marianne: in the scorching heat of mid-August
Arizona, a two-hundred-mile round-trip jaunt in a vehicle without airconditioning was no
place for even healthy two-year-olds. For an ailing one, that kind of trip was absolutely
out of the question.Moderately disappointed at having her plan for an intimate chat scuttled, Joanna
didn't have to struggle very hard to put a good face on it. "Don't worry," she replied,
pulling the irrepressible Ruth into a squirming hug. "Jenny's been gone for over a week
now. Being around the girls will help bring me back up to speed in the motherhood
department."Gratefully, Marianne sank into the booth and began opening the cellophane wrapper
on a package of saltine crackers. By the time the crackers were peeled, Ruth was
demanding hers in a raucous squawk that sounded for all the world like a hungry,
openmouthed nestling screeching for its mommy's worm. As soon as Marianne put the
crackers down on the table. Ruth scooped them up, one in each hand, and stuck them
both in her mouth at once. But Esther's lone cracker had to be placed directly in her
hand. Even then, she sat holding the treat, watching Marianne with a wide-eyed, solemn
stare, rather than putting the cracker into her mouth.The lack of that instinctive gesture worried Joanna. So did the grayish tint to the little
girl's pale skin. Having missed church on Sunday, Joanna had gone more than a week
without seeing either one of the girls. It shocked her to realize that Esther seemed
noticeably weaker. Meanwhile, the usually well-composed Marianne appeared to be
utterly distracted.Daisy Maxwell, owner of Daisy's Cafe, appeared just then with her towering, beehive
hairdo as well as a long yellow pencil and an outstretched order pad. "What'll it be
today, ladies?" she asked. "We've got pasties, you know. They'll probably go pretty
fast.""They always do," Joanna said with a smile. "Sign me up for one.""Me, too," Marianne added, pulling two empty and spillproof tippy cups out of her
diaper bag. "And a grilled cheese divided into quarters for the girls. A grilled cheese and
a large milk.""Sure thing," Daisy said, slipping the pencil back into her hairdo.Watching the woman walk away, Joanna struggled to find something inconsequential
to say. "That's a magic time to be a mommy," she said finally. "You walk into a
restaurant and all you have to know is how to order a grilled cheese sandwich. Believe
me, once little kids get beyond their love for grilled cheese, it's all downhill."Joanna had meant the comment as nothing more than lightweight conversational filler.
She was dismayed when her friend's gray eyes clouded over with tears, which Marianne
quickly wiped away."Esther's worse, then?" Joanna asked.Marianne nodded wordlessly. Joanna reached across the table and grasped her
friend's wrist. "It'll be all right," she said comfortingly. "I know it will.""I hope so," Marianne murmured.Daisy chose that moment to reappear, bringing with her the girls'
milk and an extra glass of iced tea. "You didn't order this," she said,

setting the tea in front of Marianne. "I figured you probably just
forgot, but if you don't want to drink it, there'll be no charge."Instantly Marianne's tears returned. This time they came so
suddenly that one of them raced down her cheek and splashed onto
the tabletop before she had a chance to brush it aside."Thanks," she said."Think nothing of it, honey," Daisy Maxwell told her. "Believe
me, if I had anything stronger back there in the kitchen, I'd give you
some of that. Just looking at you, I'd say you could use it."